


Julian's London Adventure.

by Larry_say_relax



Category: The Libertines, The Strokes
Genre: M/M, slight noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larry_say_relax/pseuds/Larry_say_relax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian needs a break from NYC and Carlos needs to forget about Peter. A meeting in the hotel lounge leads to one of the rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Julian's London Adventure.

He wakes to streaming afternoon sunlight and the first thing he does is swear out loud. He was too wasted to remember to close the drapes last night, apparently. He stretches long and lean beneath the sheets, naked as usual. Another hotel room in another city, another drunken night that ended alone, which is fine with him. He likes having the time to himself when he wakes up anyway. He glances over at the clock and sees it’s nearly four pm. He wonders what time he finally made it in as he idly scratches at his scalp. Eventually he drags himself up and out of bed before his bladder bursts and heads to the bathroom.

When he’s finished pissing he turns on the cold tap and splashes the ice cold water onto his face. He isn’t looking too puffy today although his eyes are definitely in need of some Visine. “Not too bad, Jules” he murmurs under his breath then commences brushing his teeth as he wracks his brain, trying to remember the end of last night/this morning.

A party at some one’s apartment (except its called a ‘flat’ here, in London) which spilled out into a club; blurred voices suffocating him as everyone fought and jostled to talk to him, the bourbon burning his throat at first then simply doing its job and making the noise seem less loud, the lights less dim, his thoughts less sharp and painful. He hates club scenes, he hates the very idea of celebrity, he hates being sought after, put on a pedestal and treated like royalty. He hates the fact that saying this just makes him sound like a total fucking ingrate. Julian Casablancas finds most aspects of his own celebrity frustratingly contradictory and the fact that he isn’t alone in feeling this way is no comfort.  
  
He dresses quickly- the usual uniform, chosen for comfort rather than style. A tee shirt with an 80’s icon emblazoned across the front, comfortably worn Levis, black converse. He almost reaches for a jacket but changes his mind. It might be snowing outside but he isn’t planning on wondering beyond the hotel bar. He wants quiet tonight, anonymity; he doesn’t want a party, a club, a fuck in a dirty toilet stall in one of the East end pubs he winds up at every time he hits this town. He wonders if he should eat before leaving but he isn’t really hungry. He’s hung-over and he has a touch of the shakes and what he really wants is a big fat fucking Bloody Mary with a shitload of salt, pepper and horseradish. His throat works at the thought as he salivates. He grabs the key card off the dresser and heads out.  
  
The first sip and he’s nearly experiencing raptures. He downs half of it in two huge swallows and gestures the barkeep to prepare a second drink. Directly across from him a figure dressed in a fashion nearly undistinguishable from his own is watching while nursing a Jameson and coke. Carl Barat is also working his way through a brutal hangover and he recognizes the singer from The Strokes before he’s even sat down. He estimates that Julian’s night was about as long and inebriated as his own and decides to give the man a minute or two before attempting to engage him in conversation. Twenty minutes ago, the last thing he wanted was discourse- the inside of his cranium had felt like a detonated nuclear warhead and every inch of his body had ached with dehydration. Now he watches with interest as Julian reaches for that second drink. He reckons it’s about time to make a move. He gestures for the bartender and sends over a neat whiskey. He reads the music press and he knows what Julian drinks and he figures that by the time he’s finished his second libation he’ll be ready for a real drink.  
  
Julian looks up in surprise as the drink is placed in front of him. He gives the bartender a questioning look and the man waves over to a familiar looking fellow sitting directly across from him. Julian smiles and raises his drink, racking his brain. _who the fuck is that? is it some one famous? have we met?_ when the bartender speaks in a low voice.  
  
“It’s a good bit of luck his mate hasn’t checked in. Fucking Libertines- get more than one of them in one place and it’s bloody chaos” and Julian knows then, it’s Carl from The Libertines and suddenly he’s feeling excited. He’s been wanting to hang with The Libertines. He wonders fleetingly where Pete is, because from what he’s heard the two are nigh inseparable. His anti-social resolve has crumbled and when Carl raises an eyebrow and makes a move to stand up, drink and packet of cigarettes in hand, Julian nods, smiling. A moment later and Carl is seated beside him, facing him, offering his hand.  
  
“Carl Barat”

  
“I know, man. Julian Casablancas. It’s fuckin’ cool to meet you.” He finishes off the second Bloody Mary and lays into the whisky. He likes the way he can almost instantly feel the heat from it seeping into his cheeks, he likes the way Carl is looking at him, like he might possibly be an interesting person to speak to, not just a rock star to be worshiped and for the first time in a long time he feels immediately comfortable with someone who isn’t already a part of the inner circle. But Carl is speaking now, so he pays attention.  
  
“What brings you to London?”  
  
“Just needed a break. Fuckin’ A, New York can really just…I dunno. It fucks you up after a while, you know? I mean, I love it but…sometimes you just need a break. Sometimes the city just eats you alive and shits you out and you just…yeah. You just need a fuckin’ break.” Carl is nodding, and Julian continues. “What about you man, where’s your buddy? Where’s Pete?” Carl’s face darkens and Julian is instantly sorry he’s brought it up. “Dude, if you don’t want to talk about it…”  
  
“Nah, it’s alright. We’re not on the best of terms right now. He’s just moved in with this smack ‘ead and I’m here because my new flat isn’t ready.” Julian nods and Carl thinks about the way Julian speaks, how his voice is low and how he speaks with some kind of a drawl and how you don’t expect someone who speaks the way he does to have an ounce of intellect. But Carl reads and he knows that at any given time this enigma- this dirty looking ruffian who looks like he was born and raised in the gutter- can let loose thoughts, philosophies, metaphors and ideas that could easily shame plenty of today’s intellectual elite. He likes this.  
  
They drink. They drink a lot, and a few hours pass. Carl asks Julian about the pressures of the band hype and listens sympathetically when he speaks about how hard it can be when you have so many people just itching to talk shit on you, for no other reason than your upbringing and purported social class, about working on songs, about his family, his childhood, his goals. Julian asks Carl about London, about all the rumors surrounding his band and Carl finds himself telling Julian a lot more than he’d normally tell someone he’s only just met; he’s telling him about growing up between parents, about the drugs he took when he was only 8 years old, about meeting Peter. He tells Julian that his heart is broken because it’s obvious that Peter has chosen drugs over the band they created out of nothing but pure love for poetry and music. He warns Julian to be ever watchful of both himself and his band mates, his surrogate brothers, tells him that it’s easy to lose the way and subsequently lose everything.  
  
By this point they’re both wasted and Julian can’t help but notice that Carl is sitting very close to him now. He’s being dragged into those arctic eyes and he thinks about how he and his band mates are infamous for kissing and how he’s seen plenty of footage and pictures suggesting that the same goes for Carl and Peter and he’s wondering what it would be like to kiss Carl. He’s wondering, too, how far they’ve gone. Something in his bones tells him that, unlike his own circle of friends, they don’t stop at kissing and he’s surprised to feel just how much this excites him. Carl’s eyes are seductive, his mouth somehow beautiful, and Julian feels himself gravitating, wanting more than just conversation. He’s feeling high from the drinking and intoxicated by this strangely magnetic man and he realizes that it’s similar to that feeling of falling in love- his belly is a-flutter and he’s hyper-alert to everything Carl does, to his breathing, his Adam’s apple jumping occasionally, the way he tosses his hair out of his eyes. _what the fuck is happening to me? this is seriously fucking fucked up…_  
  
Thirty minutes later and they’re in Julian’s room. Carl is in the bathroom taking a leak and Julian plops himself into one of the several plush chairs in the suite. He isn’t as nervous as he thinks he should be but then again he’s drunk and he’s powerfully aroused. Carl hasn’t really touched him yet- there was a moment in the elevator when Carl pressed the button after asking in that smooth mumble which floor was Julian’s room on. He’d reached over and brushed his forearm over Julian’s shoulder, sending a current through him. He closes his eyes for a moment and thinks about what’s going to happen next. He’s never done this before, only because he’s never had the courage to ask for it when he’s wanted it. He squirms in the chair now, wishing Carl would quit making him wait and come the fuck out of the bathroom.

Carl flushes the commode then glances at himself in the mirror. He runs fingers through his hair and wishes he’d washed it before stumbling down to the lounge, even though it looks to him as if Julian hasn’t washed his in months. He considers what is about to transpire.   
Julian hasn’t done this before and it shows. He’s eager, his dark eyes are bright and sparking, and Carl had noted a slight trembling in the elevator. He thinks about his first time, how it had been more about the experience than anything else, Peter lying with his head in Carl’s lap on the battered divan in the Albion Rooms, gazing up in the dimness.

  
“ _If we don’t do it at least once, we’re frauds_.” Peter’s eyes and voice worried, his forehead creased, afraid Carl was going to say no. So in the end, Peter had done it for the experience and he’d enjoyed it, too. He’d enjoyed the physical aspect of it and also the confusion it had planted in Carl’s mind- the sudden unexpectedness of something close to submission that surfaced at the strangest moments between them. Yes, Peter had enjoyed it and even now he and Carl occasionally fell into each others’ arms although each time it happened Carl could be counted on to murmur: _“but this is the last time, Peter. We can’t keep doing this..”_

  
The thing is, while for Peter it was something to do when all else failed, or when Carl was angry with him, or when they were both so drunk that anyone would do, Carl had actually developed a taste for it. Once he’d broken himself of wanting only Peter, he’d become insatiable.  
  
He steps out into the suite and wills himself to stop the Peter comparisons. Julian is sprawled in one of those hotel room chairs, a poster child for the beautiful loser- hair slick with grease, jeans torn in all the right places; he’s unlaced and removed his black converse and that ridiculous Michael Jackson Thriller tee is stretched over his chest. He’s tall but there isn’t much to him. Julian is fine boned and delicate like an awkward gazelle, all mussed-up hair, swarthy skin and heavy lids resting over enormous dusky eyes.  
  
Carl wants to see the contrast of their skin tones- his own warmed honey against Julian’s burnt caramel. He assesses Julian’s body thoroughly in a few short seconds.   
  


Peter is tall and willowy and indisputably stronger than Carl in spite of his doe eyes, translucent skin and pinked lips. He and Peter had always struggled for the dominant role.   
Julian is taller too, but Carl can see that he -Carl- is physically stronger. Julian is rough around the edges, it’s his long neck and thin wrists that give him away at first, betray a femininity about him that his clothes, his voice, his swagger all so desperately try to deny. Carl thinks to himself that there will be no power struggle, not with this boy. He’s got the dark burning eyes and the ebony hair but there won’t be any whispered poetry today, there won’t be Arcadian references. This is going to be different.  
  
Low slung denim clings to narrow hips that remind Carl of writhing snakes as Julian rises from the chair and moves toward him. Julian is smiling and all thoughts of Peter are driven from his mind as Julian’s arms slide around his hips. Carl reaches up and touches a smooth cheek, running his thumb over it then moving down to that full lower lip. He strokes it and Julian’s eyes drift shut. His tongue flicks out and brushes the tip and Carl leans in for the first kiss.  
  
American beer, American cigarettes, American breath and heat-Carl feels the heat starting in the pit of his belly. Suddenly he discards the idea of taking this slowly- he wants to fuck and he wants to fuck _now_. He pulls back and tugs roughly at the hem of Julian’s shirt, dragging it up and over his head, dropping it onto the floor. He leans in, needing to feel the ridge of that collarbone under the slide of his tongue. He brushes a kiss into the hollow between neck and shoulder and Julian moans. Carl can feel him shaking now, nothing so gentle as a tremble.  
  
 _“Don’t be afraid, Julian. I’m not going to hurt you.”_ He feels more than hears Julian’s sigh.  
  
 _“I’m not afraid.”_ And that’s all Carl needs and now he’s pushing him backwards until the backs of Julian’s knees touch the bed and he sits, reaching for the buckle on his belt. Carl pushes his hand away, half lifts Julian, deposits him further back on the bed so he’s laid out beneath him. Carl is hovering over him and he’s pinning Julian’s hands above his head, pressing them into the pillows. He presses down and brushes himself against the obvious hard-on in Julian’s jeans. Julian moans again and for a horrible moment Carl feels a flash of arousal so strong thinks he’s going to cum in his pants. He glances down at Julian’s taut belly, the fine line of dark hair leading down underneath the waistband and he reaches for his flies, unbuttoning them quickly, expertly. He’s tugging, sliding denim down past smooth hips and strong-looking thighs and then Julian is lying there, exposed. Carl strips himself naked quickly then slides on top of Julian, liking the way Julian presses his hips upward. Carl leans to breathe into one ear:  
  


“Julian, Jules, Jules, I want to, I just really really want to—“

  
But he doesn’t finish because now he’s kissing that beautiful neck, tugging with his teeth and scraping his stubbled chin over it as Julian gasps and begs beneath him.

  
“Fuck, come on, I can’t fucking wait.” Carl isn’t in the habit of fucking without protection but right now it’s the last thing on his mind and he’s smearing his saliva up into Julian’s crack with two fingers, he’s using it to wet the tip of his cock and he’s pressing in now, his face a mask of dire concentration as Julian tenses, fear riding on the coattails of pain. He’s got his arms raised now, and he’s pressing weakly, futilely, against Carl’s chest. Carl’s tricked him- this isn’t what he thought it would be like, this is _horrible_ and frightening and it fucking _hurts_. Carl isn’t as tall as he is, but now Julian sees his mistake- the shorter man is strong, stronger than anyone he’s ever been pitted against. He gasps his words because he can’t catch his breath to speak properly.

  
“Stop, wait—I can’t-“ his eyes squeeze shut as Carl slides in, eyes glazed, his breathing loud and fast now, sounding like a freight train in Julian’s ear.  
  
“Shut up.” It’s spoken in a dreamy whisper that’s nearly a sigh. He pulls out and presses back in, groaning from the impossible tightness. Tears of pain are sliding down into Julian’s ears and he’s almost sobbing now. Julian’s hands reach helplessly, trying to find something- anything- to hit Carl with , anything to make it stop  
  
“Carl, _stop_ , please, I don’t want—“

  
“Yes you do. Yes you fucking do.” He can’t help it that Julian’s fear and pain are turning him on even more, that it feels like revenge for all the times Peter has hurt him. _he isn’t Peter. don’t hurt him. he doesn’t deserve to be hurt_ . Carl presses in again and twists his hips forcefully and Julian’s snap forward as it finally happens, crying out against Carl’s neck.  
  
“I told you, I fucking _told you_ you wanted it…” Carl isn’t sure why he’s feeling cruel- that isn’t his nature at all. Yet as Julian begins to move with him it drains away and he’s filled with tenderness as the dark and pretty thing beneath him writhes with pleasure. Carl is crooning now.

  
“It’s alright now, isn’t it Jules? I won’t hurt you again…” Julian has come unhinged. He’s never felt anything like this before, never gone from excruciating pain to overwhelming pleasure in a matter of seconds. He half gasps half cries out as Carl’s thrusts become more frantic and reaches for himself, his hand a blur as his frenzied movements come faster, faster.

  
Carl looks down and all he sees are those tremendous lamps locked onto his own eyes. He grimaces as the headboard begins to bang unceremoniously against the wall. Julian is arching and twisting, crying out each time Carl thrusts into him, his neck stretching fetchingly, his Adam’s apple jumping uncontrollably, and Carl manages to rasp out the words ricocheting in his head:  
  
“You’re so fucking _beautiful_ …”  
  
That’s all Julian needs. His back arches so hard he feels it has to snap and his balls go tight as he comes. His eyes squeeze shut even as his mouth opens, the shocks roll through him as he feels the warm strands hit just above his navel. The muscles in his stomach jump and twitch as he relaxes. The pressure caused by Julian’s own orgasm sends Carl off and his hips freeze for just a sliver of a second. Then he’s laying Julian to waste, his head is thrown back and a shudder runs through him as he finishes with a series of groans that eventually become Julian’s name. He slumps then, resting his damp forehead on Julian’s shoulder. Julian reaches up and touches Carl’s hair, Such beautiful thick hair. Niko would be envious. 

Carl finally rolls off of him and immediately reaches for his jeans. Julian feels his heart sink. _what the fuck- he’s just going to leave? after that?_ He fails to see the irony of his reaction but then it doesn’t matter because Carl tosses them aside as soon as he locates his cigarettes, and offers Julian one.

  
”Thanks, man. I thought you were about to leave”  
  
Carl lights up and takes a long drag as he lights up Julian’s smoke.

  
“Are you mad? Checkout isn’t for a few days, let’s make the best of it.” Julian grins. He reaches for the room service menu on the bedside table.

  
“We better get some food up here. And beer. Fuckin’A, a _lot_ of beer.” He reaches for the phone. He’s still smiling.


End file.
